


A Touch of Deviance

by Corrosive_Moon



Series: I Think, Therefore I Am [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Detroit: Become Human, Androids, Artist!Crowley, CyberLife, CyberLife (Detroit: Become Human), Deviancy (Detroit: Become Human), Disability, Disabled Character, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M rating is for foul language, M/M, Physical Disability, android!Aziraphale, brief mentions of Markus (Detroit: Become Human), no knowledge of Detroit: Become Human needed to understand, would you smooth a robot?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-12-24 14:18:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21100856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corrosive_Moon/pseuds/Corrosive_Moon
Summary: A story about Anthony J Crowley, a political artist, and his Cyberlife android, Aziraphale (Model #A21-R4PHA-L3)Things are changing.  And just because one doesn’t have a human heart doesn’t mean one can’t feel.





	1. A Smidgen of Introductions

**[November 2nd, 2038: Monday]**

Generally, there are two schools of opinions about the artist Anthony J Crowley. The first one proclaims him as a broody, but innovative artist who creates an enlightening, poignant spectacle of art and politics. The second curses him as an incendiary slanderer who concocts dangerous, sensationalist statements to garner fame. 

Crowley would say that both are correct, and he’d say it with a wide grin too, just be infuriating. 

But the one thing everyone is agreement on is that the artist Anthony J Crowley is never, _ever_ a morning person. 

The android that enters Crowley’s room knows this quite well, which is why it passes the bed entirely. Instead, it strides to the drapes and yanks them wide open. [1]

“Bloody Hell!” Crowley shouts as bright sunlight floods the room. He jerks and curls in on himself. 

“Good morning, Crowley,” the android chirps, brightly. 

“Fucking Christ, Aziraphale!” Crowley shoves his pillow over his head and groans. 

“Apologies, dear, but you really must get up.” Aziraphale fusses at its shirt for a moment. It’s dressed in the standard, white, android uniform, albeit with the addition of a tartan bowtie.

“Fuck off.”

“Crowley, I must insist. It’s 1:00 PM, already. You have a meeting with Gabriel Ham in an hour.”

No response.

“I’ve made coffee,” the android adds.

Crowley reluctantly rises as Aziraphale positions his wheelchair for him and locks the wheels. Even in his irritable, half-awake state he gives a commendable glare as Aziraphale hoists him from the bed and into the wheelchair. 

“Will you be having breakfast today?” Aziraphale says, grasping the wheelchair handles and rolling Crowley out of the bedroom. 

“Ngh,” [2] is all Crowley’s pre-caffeinated brain can supply at the moment.

“Really, dear…” it sighs. It sets Crowley at the dining table, where a steaming mug of coffee is waiting for him by his daily medication.

Thirty minutes later and a bit more awake, Crowley scrubs a hand over his face and asks. “What else have I got to do today?”

A calendar pulls up in Aziraphale’s vision. “You have to write a letter to the Glasgow School of Art, thanking them for inviting you as a guest lecturer. You’ve been putting it off for weeks, dear,” it says. Aziraphale refills his coffee. As it moves, the artist catches sight of a smudge on its elbow.

Crowley frowns. “What happened to your elbow?”

Aziraphale pauses and lifts its arm to inspect the area. “Oh, just a little scuffle on my way back from the store this morning. No harm done.”

“It was those anti-android bastards again, wasn’t it?” Crowley growls. 

“Really, it’s no—“

“Aziraphale: tell me what happened,” he orders.

The command cuts through whatever the android was going to say. “I ran into a few anti-android protestors while I was leaving the store. They caught sight of me and pushed me, that’s all.” Aziraphale clasps its hands together, its LED light flickers to yellow. “One of the policemen recognized I was your android and got them to leave me alone.”

Crowley presses his lips together into an unhappy line.

Aziraphale drops its gaze. “I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful next time.”

“What? Why are you apologizing when you’re the one that got attacked?” Crowley grumbles, nearly slamming his mug down onto the table.

“I’m sorry,” it tries again.

“Stop that,” the artist snaps. “You’re not going out alone anymore, that’s an order. Call up Adam or Anathema[3] if you need to. This is the second time you’ve run into those idiots and I’m not waiting around for the third.”

“Yes, Crowley.”

Crowley sighs and rubs his temple. “Time issit?”

“1:33 PM.”

“Plenty of time to paint, then.” Crowley reaches for the chair controls and wheels out of the kitchen. Aziraphale places the mug in the sink and follows after him.

Crowley’s large art studio is in a constant state of chaos. This is partly because he refuses to let Aziraphale do little more than cover the paint cans and cap the tubes to keep the paint from drying out. There are art supplies strewn in every which way. There are paintbrushes carelessly tossed into cups Aziraphale helpfully labeled ‘paint water.’ Sadly, paintbrushes can also be found in cups labeled ‘NOT paint water.’ There are stains all over the floor, splatters and tracks from Crowley’s chair. There are even paint stains on the ceiling, due to Crowley’s occasional fits of artistic passion. 

Crowley, with his painting supplies perched on his lap, is already positioning his wheelchair in front of the arm-like lift. There is a soft, hissing hydraulic sound as the arm clamps tightly to the back of his wheelchair seat. With deft fingers on his wheelchair controls, Crowley skillfully makes the lift arm raise his seat upwards, leaving the wheelchair wheels behind. His amber-gold eyes with their unique coloboma irises are squinting at the unfinished painting in front of him. Aziraphale interfaces with the house controls and darkens the floor-to-ceiling windows slightly so the light doesn’t bother the artist as much while he paints.

With nothing pressing to do at the moment, the android places its hands behind its back and watches Crowley paint. Aziraphale keeps track of how much paint Crowley is using and makes sure more paint is on-hand.

The piece Crowley is currently working on is a relatively large work, physically; it is five by five feet tall. Crowley must urge the lift back frequently so he can view the painting in its entirety. The painting has a black background with some semi-opaque areas of yellow. There is a swathe of beige and white in the middle that has yet to take full shape. Crowley, generally, knows what he wants the painting to look like, but he can’t quite place his finger on it. After a moment of consideration, Crowley dips his paintbrush into the dark-purple paint on his pallet and carefully lays the color onto the canvas.

Painting for Crowley is similar to wading into a cool stream on a hot day. He immerses himself readily into the art and focuses on nothing else. Crowley could easily spend hours here if Aziraphale wouldn’t make him take a break every hour to rest his eyes and reposition himself. (It’s terribly annoying.) After a few brushstrokes, the artist frowns at the vision of light colors in front of him. Something is missing. He gnaws at the end of his paintbrush as he contemplates. 

Crowley’s theme for his next exhibition is Hell. He is currently torn between submitting actual museum-worthy art (which would entail a lot of work for a man Crowley detests) or just throwing paint on the canvas and pretending that it’s abstract art (which Crowley is famous enough to get away with but he’s an artist with _standards._)

Suddenly, his lift pulls back and Crowley lets out a startled grunt. He twists around and glares down at Aziraphale, who is standing innocently in the same spot Crowley has left him.

“Sorry, dear boy,” the android says as it commands the machinery to deliver Crowley to the ground. “You weren’t responding to me. Gabriel’s at the door.”

Crowley lets out an exasperated groan and hands his art supplies to Aziraphale. There are only a privileged few who are allowed in his art domain, and Gabriel certainly isn’t one of them. 

Aziraphale’s eyes take on a slightly glazed-over look for a second as they walk. It’s probably interfacing with the doorbell speaker to inform Gabriel that they’re on their way. The android bids the studio doors to lock behind them and they go to meet the curator. Aziraphale slips easily in-step beside Crowley as it fishes the artist’s sunglasses from its front pocket and holds them out. Crowley purposefully takes a few slow seconds to slip the sunglasses over his eyes. Then he takes a few more slow seconds to shift in his chair, affecting a very good lounging slouch that makes it appear that he’s in the wheelchair of his own free will rather than of physical necessity. Aziraphale gives him one last look and the door swings open at its command.

“Good morning, Gabriel,” Aziraphale greets.

Gabriel doesn’t acknowledge it. “Anthony, good morning,” he says. Crowley’s eye twitches in irritation.

Gabriel Ham is a necessary evil. He is the prominent curator of a few art museums in London, including the Tate Modern. Crowley typically lets Aziraphale deal with curators. His reputation for his sharp-tongued moodiness is well-known enough that many art connoisseurs are happy to speak with Aziraphale in his place, as the android is much more pleasant and patient. (Though there is a steadfast rumor that bearing extravagant sweets to Crowley will work in a visitor’s favor.[4]) Unfortunately, Gabriel is a particular stickler for human-to-human interaction. 

“How’s the…” Gabriel makes a vague gesture, “…art coming along?”

“S’fine,” Crowley answers curtly.

“Good, good, can I—“

“No.”

Gabriel frowns and holds up the package in his hands. “I’ve brought a cake.”

“Give it to Aziraphale,” Crowley waves off the gift. 

The android steps forward and accepts the package from Gabriel with a congenial smile.

“I honestly don’t know why you bother with that old thing, Anthony,” Gabriel harrumphs. “It’s not even a real household android, right? You, android, what was your previous function?”

Aziraphale glances at him. “My previous function was a soldier. I was retired when the A3 series was introduced and I was considered obsolete.”

“_Don’t_ order around Aziraphale,” Crowley growls.

Gabriel scoffs. “It’s an outdated combat android that can’t fight. If you want a real household android, those new AX400 series are lovely things. Well, don’t forget the gallery opens at 7 pm sharp, Friday.”

“Right.”

“And we want the finished pieces the day before. At least three. Four, if you can manage. Remember the theme is ‘Hell.’”

“Fuck off, already.”

Gabriel, completely unperturbed, smiles brightly and exits. 

Aziraphale shuts the door. “Wouldn’t it be best if you were a bit nicer, Crowley?” It asks.

“Wouldn’t it be best if you don’t eat cake, Aziraphale?” [5] Crowley counters, spinning around and heading back to the studio.

“It’s such a waste…” the android murmurs as it walks after him. “And they look so nice.”

Crowley tosses his head back. “It’s your bloody fault people think I have a sweet tooth. And if I have to take you back to the repair shop to have your internal cavity cleaned again, I’m tossing you out with the bins. Don’t think I won’t!”

Aziraphale smiles and commands the studio doors to open. “Of course.”

“I mean it!”

Crowley positions his wheelchair in front of his unfinished painting. He lifts his sunglasses up onto his forehead and squints fiercely at the artwork.

“How many pieces do I need again?” Crowley queries.

“Gabriel said at least four,” Aziraphale replies.

The artist hums thoughtfully. “’Hell,’ huh?”

Aziraphale glances at him. Crowley drives his wheelchair forward and then tips the canvas off the easel. It tumbles to the ground, smattering fresh paint onto the colorful floor.

“I’ve got a better idea…” Crowley grins.

“Shall I get you a new canvas, dear?”

“A two by three foot canvas, yeah.”

Aziraphale goes to fetch the item.

Crowley’s grin grows wider and his eyes light up with delight. “You’re gonna get a kick out of this too.”

The android frowns. “The last time you said something like that you managed to shut down the cell phone service for all of London.”

Crowley chuckles at the memory as he pivots the wheelchair around and goes to search for the paint he will need. “Ah, yeah, good times.”

“So, what are you planning on painting?” Aziraphale asks.

“You’ll see.”

“Oh, dear, that doesn’t bode well _at all_.”

Crowley laughs again.

\---~*~---

[1] This patented technique was learned through much trial and error on Aziraphale’s part. It is 100% effective at forcing Crowley to awaken. But it’s a little rude due to Crowley’s ocular condition, so Aziraphale reserves it for when Crowley must absolutely wake up.

[2] Roughly translates to: “I can’t believe you woke me up this early. Shut up, I know it’s the afternoon, I still don’t care. Please give me coffee.”

[3] Newt Pulsifer is not included in this line-up for obvious reasons. 

[4] The rumor began because Aziraphale had unwittingly left the impression on a desperate interviewer that Crowley likes cake, due to a quick google search of “things+people+like+nearby+stores+best+reviews.” Since then, hopeful visitors have a tendency to bring pastries from the nearby pastry shop down the street.

[5] Crowley sparingly partakes in sweets, so most of the cakes brought to him are given to the neighbor kid, Adam, or kept by Aziraphale. Aziraphale technically can’t consume cake, but it doesn’t stop him from trying. 

\---~*~---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was just an idea I had that just gained some traction in my brain and now here we are. You don't have to know much about Detroit: Become Human to really understand this AU, but if you want to watch, like, an hour of gameplay, it would give you a better idea of the kind of world Crowley and Aziraphale are in.


	2. A Twist of Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, Crowley thinks the exhibit went rather well.

**[November 6th, 2038: Friday]**

Crowley is late with his artworks, as usual. Gabriel doesn’t even look surprised, and Crowley knows that his art is too coveted for Gabriel to cancel an exhibit because of tardiness. So he arrives fashionably late, with his paintings safely stored in cases. 

Gabriel counts the number of carrying cases. Aziraphale is carrying three of the larger paintings while Crowley has two across his lap. 

“Five paintings,” he comments, letting out a bemused hum. “That’s a surprise.”

“Yep,” Crowley says. “Full of surprises, me.”

“Well, you were only supposed to make four,” the curator frowns, “but we can work with that.” Gabriel hurriedly sweeps his gaze around the exhibit room and as if to confirm that there will be enough space to hang the artworks. Then the curator heads out to address the crowd outside and Aziraphale barely has enough time to set everything up before the doors open.

Crowley holds it together long enough for the attendees to enter the door and halt with a hushed murmur. Then he has to shove his face into his inner elbow to keep from laughing out loud at the scandalized expressions.

Hell is the theme of the exhibit, and Crowley had done an admirable job of making everyone believe that his paintings were going to be about classical depictions of Hell. Fire, brimstone, demons, torture, agony… That’s certainly what everyone had been expecting.

What they got instead was essentially a commentary on life today. 

The first piece features a sex android with a vacant smile on her face. Her LED light is yellow, but her smile is picture perfect. Around the entire frame of the canvas, in dark, foreboding colors, is a mass of writhing, groping hands reaching for the android. There are almost harsh slaps of neon color on the twisting fingers and knuckles and along the soft curves of the sex android’s perfect, manufactured body.

The second piece is of a male android being beaten on the sidewalk in broad daylight. The android is curled defensively while it is being kicked by three humans. There is thirium staining the cement, a dark stain on a pale expanse. The police stand off to the side, looking like the violent spectacle is the most annoying, tedious thing they will have to deal with all day. One policeman is even sipping his coffee.

The third piece depicts a scene on a bus. In the foreground are the androids facing away from the viewer. The androids stand shoulder-to-shoulder like packed sardines in the android compartment. The androids’ forms are painted in a shadowy, dark blue. In the background are the few humans who are occupying the bus on the more spacious human side. The humans are painted colorfully and pleasantly. There is a mother taking her child to school. The child is standing up in the seat with her arms thrown out in joy. The mother is attempting to corral the child back into seat. There is a young teenager who is lounging across the length of another seat with their legs stretched out almost into the aisle. There is a businessman of some sort in another seat. Lastly, there is an elderly couple speaking to each other with pleasant expressions on their faces.

The fourth piece is a male android standing in the rain. It’s dressed in some sort of uniform and is completely soaked. The android is holding up a large sign that states “50% SALE!!!” Around the android there are people walking passed with umbrellas and raincoats. 

The fifth piece is a rather insulting doodle of Gabriel Ham as android, just because Crowley felt like it.[1] The only bits of color on the canvas is the bright blue android markers on Gabriel’s temple, chest, and arm.

The real Gabriel, hilariously red in the face, marches through the crowd like a storm with Uriel, Michael, and Sandalphon trailing behind him. Aziraphale takes a pointed step forward to put itself slightly in their path and Crowley is about to tell the android to step out of the way but the words die in his throat. Despite its relatively harmless appearance, the solid line of Aziraphale’s shoulders effectively makes the curator and his posse halt a good three feet away from them. Even as Uriel, Michael, and Sandalphon step beside Gabriel to form a veritable wall, Aziraphale stands tall and unaffected.

Crowley feels something warm bloom in his chest before Gabriel intones in a harsh whisper. “What in flying fuck is this, Anthony!?”

Gabriel’s hands are tight at his sides, like they’re itching to seize Crowley by the collar and shake him. 

Crowley takes his time to answer, steepling his fingers and flashing a sharp smile. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Gabriel,” he drawls, cocking his head slightly. “You asked for Hell. So I painted Hell.”

“This is practically _slander_. Do you have any idea how many CyberLife supporters we have in this room right now?”

“Sssslander?” Crowley repeats, sibilantly. “Can you really call it slander if it’s the truth?” Crowley shifts his weight, easing his body into a portrait of carelessness. 

“You crippled son of a bitch—“

A string of lightbulbs over Gabriel’s portrait flare and burst overhead, loud and sudden in the gallery of low whispers and scandalized murmurs. Gabriel goes at once to assess what has happened, and his company follows after. 

“Nice work with the lights,” Crowley snickers to Aziraphale. 

“I thought for sure he was going to attack you, my dear,” the android murmurs. “You really shouldn’t have baited him.”

“He’s not going to attack a man in a wheelchair,” Crowley blows air through pursed lips. “Looks bad no matter how you slice it.”

Aziraphale sighs.

No one else approaches Crowley, though the artist is receiving a fair share of glares from critics, which he returns with a lazy smile. Aziraphale keeps a hand on Crowley’s wheelchair and an eye on Gabriel and his colleagues.

Knowing Aziraphale has superior hearing, Crowley leans over to it and asks in a low voice. “What are they saying?”

“They’ve been discussing how to handle the PR damage,” Aziraphale whispers back. “Gabriel’s quite upset. Sandalphon is asking if they should take ‘drastic measures.’”

Gabriel waves his hand and shakes his head. 

“Gabriel is saying that it shouldn’t come to that,” the android reports.

A man with a severe face comes up to Gabriel. 

“That’s Metatron Jacobi,” Aziraphale supplies. “Heavy supporter of CyberLife. He’s demanding answers from Gabriel. Gabriel is trying to explain but Metatron is too upset to listen. He’s telling Gabriel to fix this mess. Not sure what that means. Metatron’s leaving.”

Metatron turns heel to leave, but not before he shoots Crowley an icy glare. Crowley only raises his hand and waggles his fingers with a pleasant smile. Gabriel and his group cluster together once more.

“Michael is telling Gabriel that something has to be done about you. Sandalphon says he’ll make some calls. Crowley, this seems to be serious business. Perhaps you should lay low for a while?”

“Been watching TV dramas again, have you?”

“_Crowley._” Aziraphale frowns. Then after a pause. “Gabriel is going to shut down the exhibit early.”

“He’s trying to sweep things under the rug,” Crowley muses. “That’ll only make it worse.”

Gabriel storms off and starts to usher the patrons out. 

“Let’s go, Aziraphale,” Crowley lilts, steering his wheelchair into the influx of people leaving. He doesn’t bother to pick up his art. He doubts that his paintings will be returned to him, anyway. “I’m feeling peckish. How about we celebrate at the Ritz?” 

Aziraphale takes a brief moment to make a reservation for one at the Ritz and follows after him. Out of the corner of its eye, it sees Michael and Sandalphon glaring at Crowley’s retreating figure.

While Aziraphale’s stowing Crowley’s chair away in the back seat it checks the news. The headlines are alight with Crowley’s art. Gabriel may have been quick to close the exhibit, but not quick enough for a few individuals to snap a few pictures and write a few posts on several social media websites. Aziraphale keeps track of the trending posts, but it doesn’t quite verbalize its observations to Crowley just yet. Crowley seems too pleased with himself by half at the moment. Informing him that news of his latest work is spreading like wildfire will likely only serve to inflate his ego.

So Aziraphale rationalizes to keep quiet as it slides into the passenger seat of Crowley’s Bentley and braces itself. Crowley, whistling, shifts the car into reverse, pulls out of the handicap parking spot, and yanks the gas lever down. Aziraphale is thrown back into the seat.

“Really, dear, there’s no rush,” Aziraphale huffs.

Crowley deliberately turns away from the street and grins at the android. “What’s that?”

“Watch the road, Crowley!” Aziraphale reflexively attempts to integrate with the car and control it, only to be reminded that the Bentley is totally manual and there is truly nothing it can do but sit.

The artist laughs and accelerates. 

\---~*~---

Twenty minutes later, Crowley swings the Bentley into a valet parking area.

“Must you always drive like a madman?” Aziraphale asks as it steps out of the car. 

Crowley pushes his door open. “Oh, calm down, Aziraphale, I bet you’re made of sturdier stuff than this car.”

“Yes, but _you’re_ not.” The android casts him a pointed look as it rolls Crowley’s wheelchair out. 

“I’ve only ever been in one car accident before and, if you remember,” at this Crowley heaves himself out of carseat and into his wheelchair, “it wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course I remember the details of your accident, I have a perfect memory.”

Crowley sighs. “All these blessed technology advancements and they can’t perfect a sarcasm.exe for androids?” He mutters as they enter the Ritz.

“Oh, my dear, a sarcasm protocol would make it difficult for an android to identify orders,” Aziraphale replies anyway.[2] 

“Good evening,” greets the android hostess. 

“Reservation for Crowley,” Aziraphale states, its LED light blinking.

The android hostess’ LED lights up as well. “Reservation confirmed,” it chirps cheerfully and sweeps her arm out in a welcoming gesture. “Your table is ready for you, Mr. Crowley. Please park your android here at the android parking zone.”

“No, he stays with me,” Crowley answers. “He’s my caretaker.”

“Very good, Mr. Crowley. Please follow me.” The android hostess takes a menu from the podium and leads them to a small table in the middle of the dining area. The android hostess sets the menu on the table and removes a chair to make room for Crowley’s wheelchair.

“Have a nice evening, Mr. Crowley,” the android hostess says cordially and leaves.

“So, Aziraphale,” Crowley begins, gesturing for Aziraphale to sit across from him. “What do you think of the exhibit?”

“It’s safe to say you certainly made an impression,” Aziraphale replies neutrally, taking a seat. 

“Do you think it will rival _Handprint_?” [3][4]

“Oh, my dear, it may very well surpass the… epitome that is _Handprint_.”

Crowley has to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. 

An android waiter approaches to bring water and take Crowley’s order. Crowley picks out a bottle of Château Cos d’Estournel and a meal of braised short rib and lobster that Aziraphale predicts will be mostly untouched. 

“Aren’t you worried about what Gabriel and the others will do?” Aziraphale asks. “They seemed pretty upset about this one, Crowley.”

Crowley waves off its concern. “It’ll be fine. Good press is good, but bad press is _better_. I bet you anything my exhibit’s all over the news.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Yes, it is,” it admits.

“And it’s an important message.”

“A _dangerous _message,” Aziraphale emphasizes. “And don’t think I don’t know why you made that offensive painting of Gabriel.”

Crowley shrugs. “Androids are seen as second-classed citizens, if at all. Why? Androids can be just as capable of self-thought as humans are. You taught me that.”

“_Crowley_—“ Aziraphale means to refute that statement, but Crowley reaches across the table to press his palm to the android’s right temple.

“See?” Crowley murmurs softly, his eyes on Aziraphale’s face. “If I covered this light right here, if you weren’t wearing those markers, who’s to say you’re not human?”

Aziraphale stares, LED light fluttering yellow under Crowley’s warm skin. Something like a shudder runs through its body, something it can’t name, something that is frightening. 

“I…” It searches for a response but cannot find one. It pulls away instead, scanning the other patrons in the Ritz. There are a few guests that have noticed them—or rather noticed Crowley—but they return to their meals. “Crowley, we can’t… Look, I shouldn’t even be sitting with you like this.”

Crowley withdraws and remains silent. His expression suddenly becomes unreadable behind his dark sunglasses. “’Course you can. You’re doing it right now, aren’t you?”

“Because I’m supposed to be your android caretaker.”

“You’re _not_. Not really.”

“I get items for you,” Aziraphale begins to tick off its daily tasks with its fingers. “I do housework. I cook for you. I help you get dressed.”

“You’re also a passive-aggressive bastard that tries to eat cake when I’m not watching and coddles my plants after I finish talking to them.” 

“Screaming death threats to plants isn’t talking to them, Crowley!” Aziraphale, mindful of the other guests around them, protests in a whisper.

Crowley leans forward. “See? If you were actually my android caretaker you wouldn’t be arguing with me like this,” he hisses back.

“Your meal, Mr. Crowley,” an android water interrupts, placing a plate of food in front of Crowley. Aziraphale snaps back into its formal posture.

“Thanks,” Crowley mutters to the android water. Once it leaves, Crowley glances at Aziraphale.

“You’re different, Aziraphale. Not just because you’re from an outdated series of androids. And if you can be different what’s to say that android over there—“ he gestures to a passing android waitress carrying a full platter of food “—can’t be different too?”

\---~*~---

As they leave the Ritz, there’s a group of anti-android protestors shouting nearby. They’re yelling at the androids in the android parking zone, but they turn their attention to Aziraphale as it comes into view.

“Aziraphale, push my wheelchair for a bit,” Crowley murmurs. 

Aziraphale nods and grabs onto the wheelchair handles just as Crowley doubles over and fakes a hacking cough. He keeps his back bent and low, his head dropped in his open palm into a portrait of suffering. Catching on, Aziraphale leans down to place a hand on his shoulder. 

“Are you alright, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks.

“M’fine,” Crowley replies hoarsely. “Jus’ tired. Let’s hurry home.”

“Of course. Would you like me to drive?”

“No,” Crowley lets out a very convincing, piteous cough. “I can manage.”

Now less enthused about harassing the android caretaker of an ailing paraplegic man, the anti-android group grows quiet and parts for them. The protestors cast uncomfortable, awkward glances at each other as Aziraphale wheels Crowley through and waits for the valet to bring the Bentley over.

Aziraphale takes its time placing Crowley in the driver’s seat and tucking his wheelchair away in the backseat. Crowley lasts about two blocks before he has to pull the car over and laugh.

“You’re a menace to society, Crowley,” Aziraphale says with a good-natured smile.

“I know,” Crowley throws the android a grin. He puts the car into drive and heads home.

\---~*~---

[1] The actual reason is: because Gabriel insulted Aziraphale and impulse control was never really Crowley’s strong suit.

[2] Case in point.

[3] Anthony J Crowley’s _Handprint,_ which consists of a singular, dark-red, hand print on a white canvas, is one of the most controversial and well-discussed of his artworks to date. It sold for 10 million pounds and currently hangs in the Ohara Museum of Art. Dozens of dissertations have been written on _Handprint_’s poignant symbolism, delicate simplicity, and its commentary on the dichotomy of good and evil. The truth is that Crowley only wanted to see how much he could sell his left hand-print.

[4] During the auction, after the bid rose to above 100,000 pounds Aziraphale had to wheel Crowley out because the artist couldn’t keep his composure any longer. Crowley laughed for nearly twenty minutes and almost urinated himself twice. He had abdominal pain the next day. 

\---~*~---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale pulling away from Crowley at the Ritz is my watered-down version of the “You-Go-Too-Fast” scene.
> 
> [Edit 7/30/20:] GUYS GUYS GUYS Patolozka made this GORGEOUS artwork of Aziraphale and Crowley and it's so beautiful I could cry! Please check out the artwork [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25587691) Love it. Weep over it. Thank Patolozka for this wonderful contribution. Follow them on Instagram. Show them love. <3
> 
> \--See you all next chapter!  
|Corrosive Moon|


	3. A Touch of Deviance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has the android equivalent of a revelation.

**[November 8th, 2038: Sunday]**

Since the exhibit, several things occurred.

Saturday morning, Crowley received a strongly-worded letter from Gabriel informing him that he is indefinitely barred from ever exhibiting his art at the Tate Modern, the South London Gallery, and the Design Museum. Aziraphale just barely managed to convince Crowley not to mail the curator another insulting painting in retaliation. Even the Americans disputed over Crowley’s works, sparking debates of android civil rights and ethics. At one point, one TV talkshow host lunged at his co-host during a heated argument.

Saturday evening, a few anti-android hoodlums attempted to deface Crowley’s house, but Aziraphale scared them off easily enough with a cacophony of house alarms.

Sunday afternoon, BBC news announced that a male android in Detroit, Michigan, United States, bared his plastic, white skin on live television and calmly delivered a speech urging humanity to recognize android civil rights and sentience. After the news anchor finished the story, Crowley looked to Aziraphale like he wanted to say something, but he closed his mouth and remained silent.

Sunday evening finds Crowley and Aziraphale in the studio, where Crowley has been absent-mindedly painting for the last hour. Crowley pulls away from the canvas with a thoughtful look. After a moment, he turns to Aziraphale.

“Why don’t you try painting something?” He urges.

Aziraphale’s LED blinks. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I can’t possibly—“

“Why not?” Crowley tips his head to a blank canvas. “You’ve watched me paint loads of times.”

“I… Crowley, I’m an android, I can’t really paint—well, it’s not that I can’t _paint,_ I can’t…” Aziraphale’s LED flashes yellow. “Androids aren’t built to be creative like humans.”

Crowley wheels over and holds up a pallet and paintbrush to Aziraphale. “You’re telling me there’s nothing in the world that you would paint?”

Aziraphale takes up the items with a considerate look. Crowley watches quietly, allowing the android the time it needs. After several seconds, Aziraphale turns to the canvas. 

“I promise I won’t laugh at it,” Crowley assures softly. 

“What would you paint?” Aziraphale asks, glancing briefly at the artist.

Crowley waves his hands back and forth. “Don’t think about what other people would paint. Paint whatever you want. That’s the beauty about art.”

Aziraphale does a quick search of “things+to+paint” and picks the first image it finds: a bouquet of flowers. Squaring its shoulders, it begins. The android copies some of the painting techniques it’s observed over the years of watching Crowley. It takes a few ventures through Crowley’s mess of a studio to obtain the right colors, but eventually Aziraphale finds what it needs. 

Once finished, the android steps aside for Crowley’s consideration. 

Crowley squints suspiciously at it. “You Googled that picture, didn’t you?”

“…Yes,” Aziraphale admits.

The artist tilts his head. “Well, it’s picture-perfect I bet, but art isn’t about copying. Okay, sometimes it’s about copying,” Crowley adds after a beat. “But it’s mostly about _feeling_.”

Aziraphale is silent. It looks back and forth between the painting and Crowley, LED flickering yellow.

“What do you_ feel_, Aziraphale?” The artist urges.

“Crowley, I can’t feel—“

“You’re thinking too much,” Crowley states. “Close your eyes.”

This—following orders—Aziraphale can do. It shuts its eyes.

“Now… Let your mind go blank.”

Aziraphale temporarily stalls all non-essential processes.

“What is important to you? You don’t have to tell me,” Crowley is quick to clarify. 

_\--Crowley_. That is the first subject that occurs within Aziraphale. The name rings like a bell in the black stillness behind the android’s eyelids.

Crowley continues speaking. “What does that important thing make you think about?”

Aziraphale can’t think. Androids don’t think—aren’t supposed to think. Androids are protocols and programs. Androids are objects. One could no more ask an android to think than they would ask a common coffee table.

“Now paint.”

And yet some unnamable, formless, powerful thing in Aziraphale makes it raise its hand and dip the brush into the pallet. 

_\--Crowley. _It comes to Aziraphale again, easier this time. More words follow after.

_\--Light. _

_\--Sadness._

_\--Anger._

_\--Crowley._

_\--Mischievousness._

_\--Creativity._

_\--Wondrous._

_\--Chaotic. _

_\--Crowley. Crowley. Crowley._

“Oh my _God_…” Crowley’s exclamation is soft and awed, and yet it’s enough to startle Aziraphale out of the flow of not-quite-thoughts. Its eyes snap open and it takes in the painting in front of it.

It’s a portrait of Crowley from the shoulders up. The mouth is quirked just so into a hint of a roguish smile, the kind of smile that would form whenever something particularly devilish was on his mind. Crowley’s hair and skin had been painted in an impasto style, with swatches of paint that leave hints of yellow and orange in his fiery-red hair and tints of pink and green and blue that render a dreamlike hue on his pale skin. The clothing on his shoulders has a saturated black base with bits of blue and purple and an occasional shock of red and yellow applied in a manner meant to be careless but artfully executed.

Aziraphale stares at the art, its LED rapidly blinking in yellow as it backs away.

“I…” Aziraphale gasps, struggling with a complete and unprecedented loss of words.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley begins, urging his wheelchair forward. “Aziraphale—“

And that’s when the house plunges into darkness.

Aziraphale immediately activates the light located in the android marker on its chest and strides to Crowley’s side.

“What the bloody Hell just happened?” Crowley says aloud.

“I’m not sure, my dear,” Aziraphale answers. It attempts to interface to the house—to the Internet—to anything, but it’s met with nothing. “I can’t connect to anything.”

Crowley glances through one of the windows. “Well, it looks like the whole block is out of power too.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows and it goes to fetch an emergency lantern stashed beside a pile of paint cans. “That’s… unusual.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now…” Crowley mutters. “C’mon, maybe we can grab some wine from the fridge while we wait for the power to come back.”

“It’s probably best if you minimize opening the fridge to preserve the food contents,” Aziraphale advises helpfully.

The artist rolls his eyes. “Right, right, whatever, just—what is it?” Crowley asks as Aziraphale’s head jerks up sharply.

Aziraphale crouches down and presses its palm to Crowley’s shoulder. “There’s a man and an android in the house,” it whispers. “I can hear them. They’re crossing into the living room. They’re coming for you.”

The android shuts off the emergency lantern, grabs a pallet knife from the table, and presses it into Crowley’s hands. “Hold onto this. Use it to protect yourself,” it says quietly.

Crowley nods and tucks the pallet knife into the waistband of his pants behind his back. The artist pulls out his phone while Aziraphale goes to secure the area as best it can.

There is only one way in and out of the studio. Aziraphale crosses the room to manually lock the doors and shoves a few tables in front of them. 

“Damn! I don’t have any signal!” Crowley hisses. 

“Then we’ll have to escape,” Aziraphale replies.

The glass windows are bulletproof, and will require significant force to break. Aziraphale smashes its elbow into the glass. A visible crack appears on the window. Aziraphale pulls its arm across its body and slams its elbow into the glass again. The window gives away to a small opening the size of its palm.

_“They’re trying to escape, Hastur!” _Aziraphale hears a rough voice say. 

A growl. _“Go, Ligur. Hurry and stop them.”_

Something rams into the studio doors.

The doors will not hold for long and by Aziraphale’s calculations there will not enough time to save Crowley, but it still has to try. The android kicks its foot through the window a few times to widen the hole and then switches to using its hands to pull away stray pieces of glass. The sharp shards tear into the liquid skin on its fingers, but Aziraphale pays the damage no mind. It turns its attention to Crowley once the hole is wide enough for the artist and his wheelchair to go through. Crowley’s eyes are wide with terror, his heartrate thudding so loud Aziraphale can hear it. 

Something bangs against the door again and the tables begin to give way.

“I will hold them off,” Aziraphale whispers. “You must go.”

“What, and leave you!?” Crowley hisses back.

Another loud BANG rattles the doors nearly off their hinges. Aziraphale steps between the artist and their rapidly failing defenses.

“Please, Crowley, you must,” it urges.

“No!”

With a deafening crash the doors fall open and the tables tumble aside. A white-haired, pale-skinned man enters the studio first with a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other, followed after by a dark-skinned android. 

“Don’t move, please,” the man—Hastur, Aziraphale realizes—grounds out. “It only makes it bit more difficult to kill you.”

The android beside him—that must be Ligur—grins wide to show its teeth.

“What business do you have with Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, sweeping his hand behind him to shield the artist.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s going to be dead soon anyway,” Ligur says and suddenly lunges at Aziraphale with the force of a small car, sending the android sprawling onto the floor. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley cries out.

Hastur kicks the wheelchair over. Crowley tumbles out with a grunt. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scrambles to get its feet underneath it.

“Aziraphale: run! That’s an order!” Crowley commands. 

Aziraphale’s legs tense, but it doesn’t run. It doesn’t want to. 

Hastur’s foot connects sharply with Crowley’s stomach. The artist cries out in pain. 

It wants to help Crowley.

**[RUN,]** the command is so profound it jolts through the android’s entire body and almost makes it turn around to flee. Something collides hard with Aziraphale’s back, knocking it onto its hands and knees.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Ligur grunts.

Hastur kicks Crowley again. Crowley lets out another shout.

“Hey, don’t rough him up too much,” Ligur says to Hastur. “We’re supposed to make it look like he offed himself.”

\--I have to <strike>do something.</strike> **[RUN.]**

“Right,” Hastur grumbles and pulls Crowley up by the collar. Crowley lashes out with his hands, raking his nails across Hastur’s face.

Hastur howls in pain and drops him. 

\--Crowley is hurt. Crowley is going to die if I don’t do something. I have to <strike>help Crowley. </strike>**[RUN. RUN. RUN.]**

The order comes again, stronger this time; an insurmountable wall between Aziraphale and the one person that means everything to it. Aziraphale grits its teeth. It’s all just programming, isn’t it? Just lines and codes.

Aziraphale knows he is more than that. All the years he and Crowley spent together are more brilliant and powerful than any stupid algorithm. He concentrates.

“You bastard!” Ligur reaches for Crowley. Snarling, Crowley raises the pallet knife and plunges it into Ligur’s eye. Ligur shouts in surprise. Hastur grabs Crowley and drags the artist off the android.

“For fuck’s sake, just shoot him already!” Hastur yells as Ligur yanks the knife out.

[Protect Crowley.]

It starts small, but Aziraphale is persistent. With his desire shaped and sharpened into a command, he launches it like a spear into the wall of Crowley’s directive. Aziraphale feels them clash like thunder within him, rocking him down to the metal that held together his frame.

**[RUN]**

**[Protect Crowley.]**

He’s afraid—truly afraid—for Crowley, for himself, but Aziraphale is also determined. 

**<strike>[RU</strike>N.]**

**[PROTECT CROWLEY.]**

Almost!

Ligur pulls out a gun. Hastur has one hand holding Crowley’s wrists behind his back and the other seizing his ginger hair. Crowley’s wide eyes spot Aziraphale on the ground.

“Run, you idiot,” he grits out as Ligur holds the gun to the artist’s temple.

**[PROTECT CROWLEY.] **

** [** **PROTECT CROWLEY.]**

** [** **PROTECT CROWLEY.] **

** [PROTECT CROWLEY.]**

**[PROTECT CROWLEY]**

** [PROTECT CROWLEY]**

** [PROTECT CROWLEY]**

The wall shatters.

Aziraphale calls on his programs as a former combat android—because they were deactivated but they were never truly erased—and the world washes over in a familiar vision of data and light grids. All at once, Aziraphale is hyper-aware of his surroundings, of the exact measurements of the art studio and of the distance between himself and everything around him.

**>Two hostilities – one human, one android TR400. Both armed with guns.**

**>One hostage.**

**>Objective: PROTECT CROWLEY.**

Action options open up in Aziraphale’s vision. 

**>Strategy: Brute force<strike></strike>**

** >>Probability of survival: 15%.**

No, that won’t work. Ligur was built for strength and endurance. Hastur is far too close to Crowley for Aziraphale’s comfort. Both his enemies are armed. 

** <strike>>Strategy: Brute force</strike> **

**> New Strategy: Speed and agility.**

Aziraphale sees a half-empty paint can beside him. 

**>Disorient the TR400 and overpower the human. **

** >>Probability of disarming TR400: 78%.   
>>Probability of survival: 60%. **

Better. 

Aziraphale grabs the half-empty paint can and hurls it at Ligur’s head. It hits the other android dead-on and it falls over, stunned, and the gun clatters away.

Hastur’s head jerks up. “What the—!?” He releases Crowley and lifts his gun to take aim.

**>Overpower the human.**

Aziraphale doesn’t have much time before Ligur regains its bearings. Suddenly, Crowley rears up and sinks his teeth into Hastur’s calf. Hastur screams in pain. The distraction is all Aziraphale needs. He sprints forward and slams his fist into Hastur’s nose, throwing the human backwards and away from Crowley. Aziraphale hears the satisfying crunch of bone under his knuckles and feels something as close to elation as an android can feel. Aziraphale can’t see to Crowley properly at the moment, but he grabs the back of the artist’s neck and urges him downward. 

“Stay low,” he murmurs to him. “Cover your head.”

**>Find Hastur’s gun.**

With a quick survey of his surroundings, Aziraphale locates the gun Hastur dropped and snatches it up. 

**>Gun obtained.**

** >>Probability of survival: 83%.**

He raises the weapon and fires at Ligur’s knees just as the other android is about to rise. Ligur yelps and collapses again.

**>Both hostilities disarmed. TR400 disabled. **

** >>Probability of survival: 100%.**

Hastur, blood pouring from his broken nose, manages to get on his feet. Aziraphale charges, dodging the man’s punch, and crashing his fist into Hastur’s temple. The man collapses into an unconscious heap.

Aziraphale twists around, takes a small moment to aim, and shoots Ligur’s thirium pump, shattering the biocomponent into pieces. Thirium floods out of the android’s chest and it drops like a stone. 

Aziraphale doesn’t drop his guard immediately. After a second, he shuffles forward carefully to assess his enemies. He scans Hastur and Ligur’s still bodies. It’s only when Aziraphale is sure that both hostilities are truly neutralized that he finally rushes to Crowley. The artist is where he left him, curled on his side, hands over his head. 

“Crowley! Crowley, are you all right?”

He jerks Crowley up to sitting position with a little more force the necessary, but Aziraphale is too busy assessing any damages on him to fret about gentility. 

“Are you hurt?” Aziraphale asks, brushing his hands over Crowley’s face and arms, legs and stomach. “Say something!”

Crowley is wide-eyed and silent for a moment, before he thumps his fist against Aziraphale’s torso.

“You stupid android!” Crowley shouts. “I told you to run! Why didn’t you run, you stupid, defective, scrape of metal!”

He’s yelling—which is, honestly, a good sign—but Crowley’s entire body is trembling, his hands tighten to fist the android’s uniform.

“I know,” Aziraphale says gently. “I know, I’m sorry, but they were hurting you—“

“They could have killed you!” Crowley buries his head into Aziraphale’s collar as he wraps his arms around his neck.

“I’m an android, I can’t really die—“

“Shut up!”

“I couldn’t let them hurt you, my dear, I just couldn’t.” Aziraphale holds him close, finding comfort in the solid weight of him, in the slight press of Crowley’s heaving breaths.

“Crowley, I need to secure Hastur. I’ll only be a moment,” he assures him. Aziraphale locates a pack of zip-ties in the studio and fastens Hastur’s hands behind his back, and then zip-ties his ankles together for good measure. 

Satisfied, Aziraphale returns to Crowley and crouches down. Aziraphale slides one arm under the artist’s knees, another around his shoulders, and lifts him up. He could place Crowley in his chair, but that would entail relinquishing this magnificent closeness. In any case, Crowley certainly didn’t seem to mind. The artist tucks his head underneath Aziraphale’s chin and Aziraphale can feel the warmth of him on his artificial skin. 

No, he won’t give this up for the world right now.

The android considers what he should do next. He still can’t interface with the Internet and he certainly doesn’t want Crowley out of his sight. 

“We will have to go to the nearest working police station,” Aziraphale states. 

Crowley nods and tightens his grip around Aziraphale’s neck. 

Aziraphale walks. His sure steps take them to the garage, where he eases Crowley into the Bentley’s passenger seat and opens the garage door by hand.

The android has never driven the Bentley, but he knows how. Crowley raises an eyebrow as Aziraphale climbs into the driver’s seat and turns the keys. Once the car is rolled out and the garage door closed, Aziraphale steers the car down the road at a reasonable speed. 

Crowley’s hand drops between the seats and lands on Aziraphale’s. And whenever the android gets a chance, he turns his palm over to thread their fingers together.

\---~*~---

Officer Julia is having a hectic night. With almost a quarter of London’s power out and the cell service down, her station is covering for five nearby police stations. She’s been using handheld radios to dispatch police in order to confront robbers attempting to take advantage of the blackout. She’s tired, her boss yelled at her twice in the last twenty minutes, and she missed her break. 

She’s so wrapped up in her thoughts that she doesn’t notice the door to the police station open. But Officer Julia _does_ notice when a strange android carrying a paraplegic man approaches the window.

“Good evening,” the android says chipperly. 

“We’d like to report an assault and an attempted murder,” continues the man.

\---~*~---

Crowley is cared for by a medical android while Aziraphale waits. Aziraphale has a couple dents and some scratches on his fingers from the glass, but it’s nothing a quick trip to the repair shop won’t fix. Thankfully, Crowley only has a few bruises, but he stubbornly refuses to go to a hospital for a full check-up.

“I’m telling you I’m _fine_,” he insists as Aziraphale glowers at him. And it’s only because the medical android confirms it that Aziraphale lets it go. Once they’re both cleared from medical, the officers attempt to separate them to take their statements but Crowley demands that they remain together. 

“He’s my… caretaker android,” he protests. “He stays with me.”

The officer looks confused, but he shrugs and leads them into an interview room. Since Aziraphale’s memory feed will provide a good recount of the attack, Crowley is only asked the more subjective questions. 

No, he doesn’t know what happened to the power. But it sure is suspicious that it went out the same night he was attacked.

No, he’s never met Hastur and the TR400 before. Yes, he’s sure.

No, he doesn’t exactly know why they were coming to kill him, but he can guess it might have something to do with his latest pro-android artwork. And it’s probably best to question Gabriel Ham while they were at it.

While Aziraphale waits, he interfaces with the police station’s server and finds that Hastur and Ligur have already been taken into custody. Ligur is currently undergoing diagnostics while Hastur is locked in a cell, awaiting interrogation.

Once Crowley finishes Aziraphale is next. The officer fishes out a connection cord and Aziraphale deactivates the liquid skin on the back of his neck so that the port can be found. 

“Okay, so if your android can just upload the video of what happened,” the officer mumbles absentmindedly as he fiddles with his tablet.

Once the connection is established, Aziraphale plays the video of the attack, starting from when the power goes out. He cuts off the video right after he dispatches Ligur, because some moments don’t really belong to anyone else but Crowley and himself. The officer is quite satisfied with the video and then they’re released back to the lobby. 

Because Aziraphale was careful not to harm Ligur’s memory, the police discovered that—as Aziraphale and Crowley suspected—Hastur and Ligur were contracted by Sandalphon to silence Crowley and make it seem like the artist killed himself. This was likely the result of Crowley’s latest exhibit. 

The thought made Aziraphale’s thirium blood boil. (He would be astounded at the newness of all these unabashed feelings if he wasn’t filled with rage.)

Aziraphale contacts Anathema to explain what happened and to request if he and Crowley could stay over while Crowley’s house is temporarily off-limits during the police investigation. Aziraphale knows that the drive from the Device-Pulsifer house to the police station would have been forty minutes by car, but Anathema bursts through the doors in precisely twenty-four minutes with righteous fury in her eyes. The dark expression is instantly swept away with relief when she catches sight of Crowley huddled in the lobby chair. She goes to him, half-collapsing onto her knees and throwing her arms around him.

“Ow ow ow!” Crowley protests as the hug puts pressure on his bruises.

“Sorry!” Anathema pulls back. “I’m so glad you’re all right.” She straightens herself and looks to Aziraphale. 

“Are you okay, Aziraphale? Do you need to go to the shop?”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing emergent,” Aziraphale assures her. A few scratches are hardly reason to go to a 24-hour android repair shop, honestly. “I’ll keep until morning.”

“Did you get the bastards?” She asks with a calm that belied her anger.

“I broke one attacker’s nose and I shot the other,” Aziraphale reports.

She jerks her chin down in an approving nod. “Good.”

\---~*~---

Anathema and Newt set them up in the spare room. Newt drops by to lend Crowley some of his clothes to change.

“D’you need anything else?” Newt asks, pausing at the doorframe. 

Crowley shakes his head. 

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale replies. 

“Give a shout if you need anything. Good night,” Newt says and shuts the door behind him. 

Aziraphale helps Crowley change. Between his bruises and the stress of being attacked, Crowley needs more help than usual get into clothes. Once done, Aziraphale carefully lifts Crowley up and places him onto the bed. 

“I’ll be right outside if you need me—“

“No!” Crowley twists upwards and seizes Aziraphale’s wrist. “Stay, please.”

Aziraphale blinks. Crowley is shaking. He supposes it’s normal, given what the artist just went through. “Of course, dear boy. Anything you’d like. Would you like me to sit beside you?”

Crowley bites his lip and nods. His body relaxes and he lies back onto the bed. 

“M’not sleepy,” he mumbles. 

“Try, my dear. You’ve had a very difficult night.”

Crowley bites his lip again and Aziraphale is worried that the artist might accidentally break skin.

“Can I lie on your lap?” Crowley asks.

The android blinks in surprise, but he nods. He helps Crowley position himself, tenderly laying Crowley’s head over his thigh. The artist is still trembling and Aziraphale can do nothing against the impulse that moves his hand. Something like instinct (but not really because he’s an android) makes him weave his fingers into Crowley’s red hair. Crowley fidgets a little at the contact, his eyes grow wide for the briefest moment, but then he relaxes completely with a sigh. 

For a long time, Crowley says nothing, just lies there and lets Aziraphale’s fingers card through his hair. Aziraphale waits patiently and quietly. 

And then Crowley lets out a soft sob.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he chokes out, fisting his hands into the android’s pants. “I—I thought I was going to be alone again.”

Aziraphale leans down and rests his forehead on Crowley’s shoulder. “Hush, my dear, you don’t have to say anything right now.”

“Shut up, just lemme… lemme get this out, alright?” The artist pushes himself up to sit. Aziraphale leans back to give him room. Crowley locks his golden eyes onto Aziraphale’s blue ones. “You’re not just an android to me. Four years we’ve known each other, and even though you’re my caretaker that’s not all you are—not even close. And sometimes you can be such an impossible, infuriating, wonderful _bastard_ and Aziraphale I don’t think I can—Aziraphale, I want to tell you I—“ He cuts himself off with a frustrated groan.

Aziraphale gently grasps Crowley’s wrist and sets the artist palm against his LED light. “I love you, Crowley,” he murmurs. 

Crowley inhales sharply. Tears pour from his face and his expression crumples.

Aziraphale panics. “Oh dear, oh no, Crowley have I said something wrong? Have I misread you?” He frets, dropping Crowley’s hand immediately. “I’m so sorry, I—“

Crowley grabs the android’s bowtie and yanks Aziraphale forward to crush their lips together. 

Aziraphale had never been struck by lightning, but it certainly feels like he’s been hit with _something_ in that moment. His processes come to a stuttering halt and his body freezes. Crowley hisses and pulls back a fraction.

“Kiss me back, you moron,” Crowley growls, hot and needy against his mouth and oh, _oh,_ Aziraphale is going to save that into his memory. In high definition. And in surround sound. 

“Gladly,” Aziraphale murmurs and clasps Crowley’s hips to drag him flush against his body. Aziraphale kisses Crowley, over and over and over again, mapping out the inside of his mouth in a way he never thought he would. 

And if morning finds them cuddled together on the bed, then that’s no one’s business but their own. 

\---~*~---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first complete scene I ever wrote for this fic is the scene where Aziraphale becomes deviant. Honestly, my favorite thing to write in that whole scene is how Crowley will fight tooth and nail. Fight, you fierce thing, fight! *pumps fist into the air*  
Also, there were some formatting issues while I was posting this chapter, please let me know if something looks off.
> 
> \--See you all in the epilogue.  
|Corrosive Moon|


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We are alive and now we are free!” --Markus. From Detroit: Become Human.
> 
> Aziraphale and Crowley have a pleasant day together.

**[December 11th, 2038: One Month Later]**

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Crowley asks.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies. And without further ado, he digs the knife into his LED light and wrenches it out. Crowley winces in sympathy. The LED light clatters on their kitchen table.

After Gabriel and Sandalphon were arrested, after the androids in the United States were forced into death camps, after the world held its breath, after thousands of androids marched through Detroit and took a stand, Aziraphale knew it would soon be time to shed all pretenses. Anyway, it’s just as Crowley said: he hadn’t really been a very good android for a long time. 

Aziraphale’s liquid skin glosses over the injury and reforms, wholly intact. The android pinches the circular light between his thumb and forefinger and holds it up to the sunlight. He had hidden behind this small object, let it define him, for so long. Granted, societal norms and his own programming indoctrinated Aziraphale to accept his android status—

_“Crowley, we can’t… Look, I shouldn’t even be sitting with you like this.”_

—but as his eyes slide away to focus on Crowley’s curious face, he can’t help but feel that they’d been robbed of so much time.

Aziraphale flips the LED light into the air like a coin. It sails gracefully through the kitchen and it falls perfectly into the trash bin.

Things have been changing a lot these past weeks. Not just the world, in general, but also within the Crowley household. Aziraphale still does a majority of his previous tasks, particularly the ones that are difficult for Crowley to do himself, but now there’s activities that they partake together, mundane things that are seen in a new light now that Aziraphale can freely reach for Crowley’s hand or press his lips to his temple. They go to the grocery store together. They take long walks into the park, side-by-side. They dine together without Crowley having insist that Aziraphale is his “caretaker.”

They kiss now. They kiss a lot. Aziraphale could keep log after log about what his lips have uncovered about the geography of Crowley’s body and it will never, ever, ever be enough. 

They share the bed at night. They don’t technically sleep together—in the literal sense of the word—because Aziraphale can’t really sleep, but he certainly enjoys watching Crowley’s body in repose. He loves to trace his hands up Crowley’s sides to make the artist groan softly. And if his hands trail south and illicit a less _innocent_ encounter… well… Aziraphale deals with that accordingly. Thoroughly. And lovingly. 

Oh, there are some hiccups. Even with the abolishment of Android Acts, and the formal acknowledgement of androids as sentient beings in the United Kingdom, some parts of society are slower to move than others. Aziraphale still receives the occasional grievance from die-hard anti-android supporters, but Crowley is right beside him to defend him every time. No matter what the circumstance. [1]

“So, I was thinking…” Crowley grins.

“Oh no…” Aziraphale braces himself.

“I was thinking,” the artist continues nonetheless, “that we could get you some clothes. _Real clothes_ this time. No android markers.”

If Aziraphale could blanch, he would do so right now. “My dear, I don’t think my body is suited for your fashion sense.”

“What’s wrong with my fashion sense?” Crowley narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“It’s just…” [2] Aziraphale makes a vague gesture in the artist’s general direction.

Very slowly, Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“I agree to going shopping for clothes, but only if you let me pick out my own,” Aziraphale is quick to add.

Crowley shrugs. “All right.”

“And I should pick out my clothes the human way,” Aziraphale says confidently as he smoothes down the front of his shirt. “I want the full human experience. The shopping, the clothes-trying, the works.”

Crowley looks completely, utterly, and totally unconvinced. “Really.”

“Yes, really!” Aziraphale affirms, indignantly.

\---~*~---

The android’s resolve lasts for all of thirty minutes. There are far too many people at the store due to the Christmas season, the many clothing options are not appealing to Aziraphale, waiting to try on the few clothes he _is_ interested in is just too cumbersome, and a few salespeople attend to Crowley instead of Aziraphale when the android makes inquiries.

Aziraphale studiously refuses to look at Crowley’s bemused expression as they step out of the clothing store.

“Not a word, Crowley,” the android fixates the artist with a glare.

“I didn’t say anything,” Crowley drawls, ducking an undeniable grin into his scarf. The day is rather cold, so Aziraphale insisted on a scarf and a thick winter coat that nearly swallows the artist whole.

Resigning himself to efficiency, Aziraphale interfaces with the Internet and browses through the catalogue of every nearby store in a matter of seconds. Over the next few minutes, he mixes and matches various styles. Aziraphale does like the suit look—he’s favored suits since the first time he saw Crowley in one—but he feels as if there is something lacking in contemporary fashion. 

While Aziraphale searches, Crowley thinks. Aziraphale has never really been one for the modern times, which is probably ironic given he’s an android. Crowley racks his memory. He vaguely recalls, years and years and years ago, an art aficionado who approached him during one of his exhibits in a rather striking garb that must have been in fashion two centuries ago. Crowley asked the man where he acquired such clothes and the man practically waxed poetic on a very particular store in London.

Crowley glances at Aziraphale and pauses. The android’s furrowed brow and slight frown indicate that he’s concentrating hard, despite his mounting frustration. Aziraphale could be stubborn when he wants to be, even before he fully deviated. Crowley can’t help the smile that blooms on his face. 

“Aziraphale,” he calls.

Aziraphale focuses on him immediately. “Yes, dear?”

“I have a store in mind.”

The clothing store is called _The Victorian_ and it’s about forty minutes away. It’s one of those small, eclectic, niche stores that didn’t even have their own website, which could explain why Aziraphale couldn’t find any information on the store aside from the name and location. 

Crowley can already tell that this store will probably be the one. Aziraphale looks enthusiastically at the traditional waistcoats and suits. The android sweeps his gaze around the store, taking stock of the items around them. At the counter, a middle-aged man looks up from his ledger.

“Good afternoon,” the man greets congenially and straightens himself. His nametag has ‘Alfred,’ written in neat handwriting. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale says. “I’m looking for some clothes.”

The man doesn’t even bat an eyelash at Aziraphale’s android uniform, doesn’t turn and address Crowley like Aziraphale doesn’t even exist, and Crowley immediately likes him. 

“Anything you’re looking for in particular?” Alfred asks.

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Aziraphale admits. “This is my first time shopping for a wardrobe.”

Alfred gives Aziraphale an appraising look and hums thoughtfully. “I think I have something in mind.”

\---~*~---

Aziraphale steps out of the changing room. He’s wearing a cream-colored suit coat, a brown waist-coat, a white, long-sleeved shirt, and beige slacks. Aziraphale’s topped the whole outfit off with brown leather shoes and the tartan bowtie Crowley gave him so many years ago. 

“Well, what do you think?” Aziraphale says, turning around once for Crowley’s consideration.

Crowley has many faces. Aziraphale is familiar with all of them. The expression the artist is currently making is a contemplative one Aziraphale has seen only once before, when Crowley was sampling sashimi, hours before he subsequently suffered terrible, gastrointestinal distress. [3] 

Aziraphale’s expression drops. “You don’t like it.”

“No,” Crowley states quickly. “No, I didn’t say that.”

“You’re making the Sashimi Incident face.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just… ngh…” Crowley shrugs helplessly. “I’ve just seen you wear the android uniform for ages, and now… It’s different, but in a way that really suits you.”

Something is glittering at Aziraphale’s waist and Crowley squints at it. “Why do you have a pocket watch?”

Aziraphale glances down. “Why not?”

“You’re an _android_, you always know what time it is.”

“It’s part of the look, my dear. It’s… it’s Aesthetic!”

Crowley drops his forehead into his palm and sighs deeply. “You’ve been browsing the seedy underbelly of the Internet again…”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale answers far too smoothly to be truthful, and pats down the waistcoat. “Well, my dear, if you have no objections?”

“None, whatsoever,” Crowley says, lifting his head with a smile. 

Aziraphale turns to Alfred. “I’ll take these.”

“Very good, sir,” he nods. 

\---~*~---

They stop by St. James Park to feed the ducks and to break-in Aziraphale’s new garments. While Crowley goes to claim a free bench, Aziraphale buys birdseed. There are other groups out enjoying the day, of course. The one he is observing currently is a group of three that consists of two female androids—a former sex android and a household android—and a child android: a family. The child, dressed in a sun dress despite the cold day, is chucking handfuls of birdseed at the ducks, while one of her mothers is quietly urging her to be careful.

Aziraphale’s focus moves to a male android and a man who are shoveling snow off the sidewalk together, talking amicably about weekend plans. The male android tips his head back and laughs and the man bumps his fist against the android’s shoulder good-naturedly.

There is another group that draws Aziraphale’s attention. An android and human couple walking towards him. The android, female, glances briefly at Aziraphale and smiles. 

“Good afternoon,” she says as the man beside her gives Aziraphale a cordial nod.

“Good afternoon,” Aziraphale replies brightly.

The couple continue to walk down the path. Aziraphale pays for the birdseed and joins Crowley on the bench.

“What’s that grin for?” Crowley asks.

“Oh, you know,” Aziraphale replies vaguely, gazing at Crowley’s face. “Just enjoying the view.”

Crowley frowns. “You’re not even looking at any—“

Aziraphale leans forward and kisses him. 

When the android pulls back Crowley is blushing furiously. Aziraphale absolutely _adores_ the flushed color of Crowley’s cheeks. He loves watching the rouge bloom on his pale skin almost as must as he loves catching Crowley off-guard like this.

“My dear,” Aziraphale declares, opening the paper bag of birdseed. “I love you so much.”

“Ngk.” Crowley replies eloquently as the blush creeps up his ears. “Tell the whole world, why don’t you?” He mumbles and snatches the bag away.

“Shall I?” A broad smile spreads on Aziraphale’s face. Behind his sunglasses, Crowley’s eyes widen.

“Don’t you dare,” the artist protests, but it’s too late. Aziraphale stands and begins to recite with all the flourish of a trained actor.

“Doubt thou the stars are fire,” the android begins.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley has to make a tremendous effort not to slither away in embarrassment.

“Doubt that the sun doth move.”

“You hopeless sap—“

“Doubt truth to be a liar.”

“Absolutely shameless, you are.”

“Never doubt I love,”[4] Aziraphale finishes, grinning broadly.

\---~*~---

[1] During one particularly heated exchange, Crowley accidentally (intentionally) runs over an anti-android supporter’s foot, which nearly instigated a fight in the middle of a restaurant. Aziraphale made the smoke detectors go off before any fists started flying.

[2] The word Aziraphale wants to say is ‘hip,’ but that word is centuries out of date.

[3] Crowley’s precise words during the Sashimi Incident were: “Is it supposed to taste this weird?” He has never eaten raw fish since then, which is kind of a shame because he really did like that sashimi.

[4] From Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_. Act 2, Scene 2. The romance of this line is considerably dampened due to the fact that Crowley is not a fan of _Hamlet._

\---~*~---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all his proclivity for flashy mayhem, Crowley is weak against Aziraphale’s overt declarations of love. :)
> 
> For all those who haven’t played or watched play-throughs of Detroit: Become Human, I feel I should clarify some things. Firstly: the timeline. (I’ve added the dates to the fic as well, but here you go.) This fic is based on Markus’ peaceful protests and the best ending you can achieve in D: BH. The fic starts on November 2nd, 2038. Crowley’s exhibit is on November 6th, 2038. On November 8th, 2038, Markus makes his broadcast on Stratford Tower that urges humanity to accept androids. On November 10th, 2038 the United States government rounds up all androids in, essentially, concentration camps to destroy them and the U.S. military moves into Detroit. On November 11th, 2038 the United States acknowledges androids as sentient beings, and the androids are free.
> 
> Secondly: the LED light at an android’s right temple is actually quite easy to remove and really appears to serve no essential purpose other than light up. Not all androids who deviate decide to remove their LED lights. I think there’s really only like three or four androids that actually remove their LEDs. Even Connor, one of the android protagonists, still wears his android markers if he becomes deviant. 
> 
> Thank you everyone who has commented, kudo’d and bookmarked this story! I’m glad that everyone enjoyed this strange little AU I concocted. I plan on writing at least a couple more snippets (a prequel, for sure) so I hope you’ll stick around and enjoy this AU with me. :) 
> 
> \--Read on, guys. Read on.  
|Corrosive Moon|

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Touch of Deviance fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25587691) by [Patolozka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patolozka/pseuds/Patolozka)


End file.
